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had imagined—sunshine, smiling faces, and deeply introspective family discussions on just about any topic.
    The next morning we got up at 5:00, broke camp, and cycled down to the dock, where we boarded a ferry for a 6:30 sailing across the English Channel.We were going to get French bread!
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    Now where did I put that bridge? Being lost and going in circles is frustrating when you are powered by dead dinosaurs, but when you are self-propelled it can put a sane person into a murderous rage. I knew it was time to find my happy spot when I started to consider swimming across the river with the tandems in tow.

3.
Egad! Cowboys and Croissants!
    June 22–July 8
France
    I ’ve never been to Texas. I hear Texans wear cowboy boots and talk funny. My presumption is that if I ever dared enter the People’s Republic of Texas wearing my Birkenstocks I wouldn’t get service at restaurants.
    I was apprehensive about entering France for the first time, because I’d heard they dressed and talked funny, just like in Texas. I was already aware of France’s redeeming qualities, such as Euro Disney and really good croissants, but everyone knows the stereotypical Frenchman is someone who has perfected the art of sneering, and can speak good English, but not to you.
    Try as we did, we never found this person.
    To a family of four pedaling through the countryside on two tandems, the French were warm and kind, often going far out of their way to help us. Never did September’s rusty high school French receive a sneer. However, we found other French quirks to test us. It was in France that I started a mental inventory of the differences between “us” and “them.”
    Brittany Ferries dropped us off in Cherbourg, on the Normandy coast of France. After we rolled off of the boat we contemplated our next move. September pointed out, “We only have a couple of apples and ‘English’ bread in our panniers. We should ride into town while we’re here and buy groceries.”
    The Normandy coast had been on my list of places to ride for a long time and I was anxious to get moving. Cycling is somewhat of a religion in France and I had been tortured by stories of the great cycling along the Normandy coast for long enough by otherwise good friends. I had also been fascinated by the D-Day invasion since a reading assignment in a high school history class, and Utah and Omaha Beach were just down the road. “Do we really want to do that?” I replied. “We just had breakfast on the boat and we have a little to tide us over.”
    Without panniers, my bike was like a Ferrari—fast and nimble. But when packed for self-contained touring, it was more like a Peterbilt. The thought of cycling a couple of miles into town to scout out a grocery store, only to have to re-pedal those same couple of miles back out was not on my top ten list, especially when the open road beckoned.
    â€œRemember what David and Carolyn told us,” September cautioned.
    I recalled them saying, “As much as we love France, you will find your number one irritation will be business hours in the French countryside. 9:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m. and then 3:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m., Tuesday through Saturday, closed Sunday and Monday. Forget this fact, and you go hungry.”
    â€œWe’ll be cycling along a main road,” I pointed out. “Surely some entrepreneurial type will want to feed us.”
    September reluctantly agreed and without fanfare we cycled past a column of cars that had recently been disgorged from the ferry, crawling at a snail’s pace. We came to a roundabout and cycled right past the exit for the town of Cherbourg, opting for the open road that would take us to Barfleur. The cycling gods smiled upon us immediately. English rain turned to French sunshine, and we could cycle on the correct side of the road without being reminded